Happy Ending
by insaneprincess
Summary: "Maybe you've been looking for your happy ending in the wrong places." StilesLydia.


A/n: Hey :) SO this story did not go at all how I expected. It's probably twice as long as expected.

That said, I wanted to write a happier (lol this isn't really happy what's wrong with me) Lydia and Stiles story that has no supernatural stuff going on, or at least impacting their relationship. I wanted to write like a high school story. If you like this though, I highly recommend Three AM Comfort, which is more of my headcanon for these two.

There's some language, and some Jackson/Lydia (not that it's shown favourably or anything, but jsyk). And yeah. Author's note done.

Reviews are love. :)

* * *

Lydia Martin might know archaic Latin and how to make a Molotov cocktail, but she's a sucker for fairytales.

She's a sucker for love stories, really. And for princesses and princes, and the final words always being 'happily ever after'.

Sometimes she's jealous of those princesses. They always fall for the prince – the perfect man, with his riches and chiselled jaw. The princes always fall in love back, completely. They have a perfect love story, a definite happy ending.

She's not supposed to be jealous of fictional girls, she's sure. She's Lydia Martin, for Christ's sake. If anyone in Beacon Hills is a princess, it's her, with her four-inch heels, huge house, and glossy red-gold curls.

But she is jealous of them. She's so fucking jealous of them.

* * *

She toys with a red-gold curl, and crosses her ankles. She's bored. She's frustrated. She's been sitting in this cafeteria chair for half an hour, and Jackson hasn't said a word to her since he quickly kissed the corner of her mouth when he sat down.

He's deep in some conversation with Danny about lacrosse. Danny, who also realizes that she's been sitting there silently, and has given her four sympathetic looks already. That's two more than normal.

She considers getting up and leaving. Strutting away in her wedge heels and couture sundress. Declaring this Jackson's loss, and not hers.

But it would be her loss. She has to keep reminding herself of that. She has to watch for the jealous stares of the multiple girls in the cafeteria who would die to be sitting where she is right now, would die to be ignored by Jackson Whittemore. She has to remind herself that this is what everyone wants – the expensive clothes and the perfect shade of lipstick and the most attractive, popular, and successful boy in Beacon Hills beside them. Everyone wants what she has and she's lucky to be where she is.

She shouldn't have to remind herself.

She pulls out a small cosmetic mirror from her purse, to ensure her reflection reflects the perfection she always intends to exude. Other than her pursed lips and sad eyes (and those never go away, so she doesn't know why she even notices them anymore), she still looks like the princess of Beacon Hills. She's touching up her lipstick when she notices his gaze on her in the mirror.

She's used to the attention, but Stiles Stilinski has always been her most obvious admirer. However, she ignores the tug of affection at this thought, or the slight warmth in her cheeks when she feels the weight of his gaze. Instead, she snaps her mirror shut, turns her head, and gives him a look right back, complete with raised eyebrows and Lydia Martin sass.

He should be intimidated by her gaze, but rather than blushing or turning away, he just continues looking at her. He might be a little flushed, but he faces her, a slow grin crossing his face.

She turns away the second he smiles at her, refusing to feel anything from his grin.

Jackson's still talking about lacrosse. And she forces herself to ignore that too – ignore the harsh fact that Stiles across the room pays more attention to her than her 'perfect' boyfriend. She pushes the thought out of her mind, and grabs Jackson's hand. He doesn't notice.

* * *

If anyone in Beacon Hills is a prince, it's Jackson Whittemore.

He's got it all – the chiselled cheekbones, the lean, muscular body, the cool blue-green eyes, the expensive Porsche, the designer clothes, the mysterious and troubled past. Girls follow him with their eyes, bat their lashes and smile too widely. Lydia should be proud to be walking beside him but she just can't be. God, she tries to be. This is what she thinks she wants.

She believes in fairytales. She believes she's doing everything she can to be happy – to get that ending she's always wanted since she was ten and her parents started fighting. She used put her pillow over her head but it never quite drowned out their voices. So she'd crawl in a corner of her room and read about girls who somehow escaped their situations, who found love and happiness. She's probably too old for the leather-bound book with its gold script, but she's so scared of being broken by the shouts beyond her bedroom door that she tries to believe the fairytales, because she's not sure how else to survive this.

She's still a little broken, underneath the heavy foundation and four-inch heels and coy smiles and false stupidity and the popular, charming persona she's put on.

But every day, when Stiles waves at her in the hallway, every day when she ignores him and the jolt in her stomach, she wears a little less foundation.

* * *

"Come on," Allison begs.

"No," Lydia says immediately. "Not happening."

Allison raises her eyebrows. "It'll be fun, Lydia. I know I've been really busy lately, and you said yourself that Jackson's busy tonight—"

Lydia chooses not to point out that Jackson is always busy, so this is not really a compelling argument. "I am not going on a double date with you and Scott and _Stiles_."

Allison rolls her eyes. "It's _not_ a double date! It's four friends hanging out. And you like Scott, and we haven't seen each other in forever, Lydia. And besides, Scott and Stiles are already on the way here."

Lydia shakes her head. "Then I'll text Stiles and tell him to turn around," she says, pulling out her phone. She thought they were going to have a girls' night. She loves Allison, even though she's bad at showing it sometimes. But Scott and Stiles were not a part of the plan, she thinks bitterly, already composing a frustrated message to Stiles.

Too late, she realizes Allison's looking at her with raised eyebrows and a small smirk. "Since when do you have Stiles' phone number?"

Lydia feels her cheeks begin to burn and curses herself for not wearing more foundation to cover the unexpected blush. He'd given her his number ages ago. She'd acted like she didn't care but she'd saved it. They'd talked a couple times – _okay_ maybe more than a couple times, but that didn't mean she was hanging out with him. It didn't make them friends.

She throws her phone on Allison's bed, sighing. "Fine," she says. Anything to avoid this conversation. "Pizza and a movie?"

* * *

She's surprised to find him on her front porch. Not even surprised—appalled.

Sitting in her driveway is his blue Jeep, and somehow that causes a tug of affection in her chest, which makes no sense to her, so she ignores it. They've hung out a bunch of times, but always with Allison and Scott there between them. They're never alone together, and it's startling to see him here, in a place where she regularly spends time.

He's grinning his familiar over-the-top smile he always wears around her. However, over the past few weeks, it's toned down somewhat. He's gotten somewhat used to being around her. She still thinks he's as happy about seeing her as he's always been; he's just gotten better at hiding it.

He holds up The Notebook, and she raises her eyebrows. He grins. "I found this in our cabinet at home; I think it must've been my mom's." Here he looks down, and the tug of pain in the line of his mouth breaks down her defences. He continues though, attempting to maintain his previous excitement. "And you always talk about it, and I've never seen it so I thought you might want to watch it."

She isn't entirely sure why she opens the door wider and lets him inside. It might be because she loves The Notebook and no one ever wants to watch it with her, or it might be the flash of pain in the curves of his face when he mentioned his mom, or it might be how hopeful he looks, how proud he is that he found something the two of them could do together. She doesn't mention how coupley watching this together is; she just lets him inside because she's becoming incredibly bad at saying no to his brown eyes.

xxx

She didn't consider the fact that they'd be lying on her bed, in her bedroom, watching this movie. She supposes they could've watched it in the family room, but she doesn't honestly go in there anymore (possibly because of the connotation of the name 'family room' when they're not exactly a family anymore, but she's not going to psychoanalyze) and so this is where they've ended up. They're side-by-side and barely touching – just from hip to ankle and she shouldn't even notice.

After a while into the movie, she forgets that she's watching it with Stiles Stilinski. She hardly notices his sarcastic comments. She's swept up by the love story onscreen, the way she always is by love stories. It's probably surprising to him, because she acts so cold and removed, but she knows it's because she's actually weaker than everyone else when it comes to romance. She believes in it too much.

"God," she sighs aloud. "Why are there no guys like Noah in real life?"

She regrets it the minute she's said it. Not only does this statement demonstrate the fact that her relationship with Jackson isn't the fairytale she pretends it is, but she's telling this to Stiles of all people. Stiles, who is staring at her warmly, with those huge brown eyes. She regrets it because she's beginning to see parallels between him and Noah onscreen. Because he loves her so much.

She has to speak before he says something stupid like pointing out how much he cares and how much she ignores him, because he looks like he's about to. So she cuts him off with a timid, quiet voice.

"Thank you. For bringing over the movie."

And somehow he gets what she's saying, the conversation she doesn't want to have. And he doesn't say another word, just smiles slightly, and says, "No problem."

Halfway through the movie, she ends up with her head on his shoulder. She's falling asleep, and he's comfortable. Some part of her brain tells her not to do this – she's giving him the wrong idea and that's unfair, and besides, she's with Jackson, and aren't these small gestures leading their way into more with Stiles? Leading into cheating?

But it can't be, she decides, half asleep, as Stiles' arm slides around her. Because cheating's wrong, and this feels so right.

* * *

If you had asked Lydia Martin a few months ago – hell, a few _weeks_ ago – where Stiles Stilinski fit in her personal kingdom, she would've said an adoring peasant. Possibly a pageboy.

However somehow, in the past little while, Stiles had become her friend. Oh, he was still adoring of course, but he'd become a regular fixture in her life. Somehow, she now thought of him as more of a knight than a peasant.

It was easy to dismiss Stiles when she didn't know him, easy to see only the sarcastic humour and t-shirts with sayings on them. But now that she knows him, it becomes impossible.

It started with the pain in his face when he mentioned his mother. That was her undoing, and from then on it was hopeless.

It's the way they both like British tv more than American by far, the way he never stops tapping his fingers, the fact that they had the same favourite radio station. It was the time that he told her she looked more beautiful without makeup, the moment when she stopped with the foundation for good.

Stiles Stilinski had become a massive part of her life, and though the girl from a month ago would have laughed at that thought, Lydia couldn't imagine life without him.

However, the students of Beacon Hills would never have guessed it.

Oh, she talked with him in the halls sometimes, when she was with Allison or Scott or both. They were never alone, however, and the rest of the time, she was holding onto Jackson's arm.

It was another silent lunch hour for her. Apparently lacrosse was getting really intense. Danny was so into the conversation he hadn't even shot her any sympathetic looks today, and Lydia was frustrated. And even more frustrated that she was frustrated. She shouldn't put up with this shit.

She considers starting a conversation with Jackson, but suddenly, for the life of her, she can't think of a thing that they would talk about. There isn't a single conversation topic she can come up with. She's tired of being silent, tired of pretending she's an idiot when they do talk, tired of listening to what he has to say and just nodding along.

She glances over her shoulder at the table Stiles and Scott are sitting at. Allison's catching up on Chemistry in the library, and Scott's gathering his things, with his phone to his ear, clearly about to join her. Which leaves Stiles.

She glances back at Jackson and Danny. She doesn't find anything in their faces that compels her to stay.

It takes an inordinate amount of courage to gather her purse and get up. She ignores Danny's surprised face, which might hold a touch of pride, and ignores Jackson's presence entirely.

She strolls to Stiles' table just as Scott leaves, giving her one of his adorable puppy-dog smiles before he heads off in search of Allison. Stiles looks like he's about to gather his stuff, but stops in surprise upon seeing her standing at his cafeteria table. This isn't normal behaviour for her.

"Hey," she says lightly. "Mind if I join you?"

He looks mildly awestruck and definitely happy that she's there. He nods, still gaping as she settles herself on the bench.

As she sips her water, he finally closes his mouth. "So," he mumbles nervously. "Why aren't you sitting with Jackson?"

"Because," she says, not sure of what she's about to say until the words are out of her mouth. "I'd rather be here with you."

She can feel the weight of those words, feel Stiles' happiness, feel Jackson's gaze on her back, feel the fact that she's made a decision she might not recover from.

* * *

"Lydia," Stiles says, for possibly the fiftieth time that hour.

She's lying on his bed, a fact that she's quite sure he was silently celebrating for the first hour of her being here. However, once he realized that she actually intended to study for their history final, he didn't seem as thrilled.

To be fair to the boy, it's been three hours, and she is still steadfastly reviewing her notes. Stiles had given up within the first hour, and had taken to simply watching her study, which was nerve-wracking. She's reread the same sentence eight times now.

She finally raises her head from her notes on the Civil War, to give Stiles one of her perfected death glares. Though it clearly intimidates the boy, he doesn't back down.

"Lydia," he sighs. "We've been studying for ages. And you'd ace this exam without studying a page. Let's take a break."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Not likely."

He sighs, and grabs her wrist, pulling her off of his bed, and down the hall. She doesn't expect his strength, but she wouldn't deny him anyway. She's bad at saying no to Stiles, and besides, she's in need of a break. The exam isn't until Wednesday.

She doesn't expect him to lead her out the front door though.

"Stiles," she says calmly.

"Yes?"

"Where are you dragging me?"

At this remark, he immediately lets go of her arm with a blush, as if he'd forgotten he was touching her. She misses the contact the moment it's gone, but she doesn't say anything.

He's grinning a little. "Just this place that I go. Scott's the only other person who knows about it. I just like going there to think. It's a nice place for a break."

She can tell this is personal information, a place only Scott knows about. She feels a slight thrill at this, and bites her lip to hide her smile. She refuses to be sentimental about stuff like this in their friendship, so instead of thanking him like she thinks she should, she simply says, "It's freezing."

And it is. It's January, and he dragged her out the door without a coat. Beacon Hills doesn't really get snow, but it gets cold, and in her thin blouse, the chill is noticeable.

Stiles looks surprised. "Yeah, I guess it is. Sorry. Here." He pulls off his grey hoodie, leaving him in only a long-sleeved navy shirt. She can see the muscles of his arms through the shirt, which she didn't expect from him. She swallows, hard.

"I can't take your sweater from you," she mumbles as he wraps it around her. Jackson's never given her a coat or sweater. Stiles' hoodie is warm and smells husky and sweet. Like him.

He grins his adorable lopsided smile. "Don't worry about it. You look good in it."

She pretends her red cheeks are from the chill, but she's sure he can see the gratitude and compassion in her eyes.

He leads the way on a short walk through the woods by his house. It's surprisingly steep, but she doesn't mind. He grabs her hand every time the walk is rough or intensely uphill, and after a while, gets the courage to not let go.

Maybe she should mind, but she doesn't. His hand is warm, comforting and stable and she wants it.

When they reach the spot, she knows. He's lead her to a beautiful lookout point, from which she can see the entire city. They sit on a large boulder and watch the city lights. It's remarkable how small everything is from way up high, a toy town, with tiny model cars and blinking lights. And strangely, the city she's always been a part of, been so sick of at times, even hated on occasion, is beautiful from this point. This is an easy place to forget your problems.

"It's amazing," she whispers. "How'd you find it?"

He shrugs. Then he looks away. "I was wandering around the woods. It was… after my mom died. I was – uh upset and wandering and I found it and I came here a lot in the weeks after that. I don't know. It's just peaceful up here, like everything that happens in that town isn't really real up here."

He's fiddling with his hands, avoiding looking at her. She's suddenly overwhelmed with the gift he's trusted her with. She doesn't deserve this place. She isn't nearly good enough to know the deepest parts of his heart. She's so profoundly touched that he would share this with her.

She wraps her arms around him, gently but securely. She cannot thank him enough for this but she'll try. She'll show him that she gets it, somehow, she will.

"Thank you," she whispers. "This means so much. Thank you."

They stay like that, arms around each other, as the wind blows through the empty branches and the city lights gleam.

* * *

It's probably cruel to do it at school, but she isn't going to his house, and she thinks it's mean to call.

She waits after lacrosse practice and smiles patiently at Scott and Danny, who pass her on their way out. He leaves when most of the team is already gone.

She grabs his arm the minute he leaves the locker room, before she loses her nerve.

"I need to talk to you."

Jackson doesn't look surprised. In fact, he looks rather emotionless. Rather like he has for weeks around her.

She leads him to an empty hallway and lets go of his arm immediately.

"Jackson," she begins. She's practiced this speech. Twice. And yet she's having a difficult time with the words while he's staring at her, coolly. "Jackson, I think we should stop seeing each other."

He doesn't look upset or surprised, or anything she prepared for. He simply looks confused. "Why?"

She bites her lip. "I just… what are we doing? I mean, we hardly even see each other beyond school and we don't even talk to each other really and I don't—"

He cuts her off. "We've always done that, Lydia. That's what we do. Look, we're both good with each other, we need each other."

She looks at him, completely confused with the direction the conversation is going. "You don't need me," she says.

He rolls his eyes. "Of course I do, Lydia. You're beautiful. Everyone loves you."

And then, suddenly, she gets it. She should've got it a long time ago. He doesn't need her because he loves her. He doesn't need her in the way she always wanted him to need her. He needs her because they're on the same rung of the social ladder. Because she's a useful accessory on his arm.

She shouldn't even be surprised, because hasn't she been doing the same to him? Hasn't she insisted that he's some prince, some worthy catch, and that's why she stayed? Wasn't she just trying to make him into the person she wanted to be with, ignoring the fact that she didn't care about him at all?

But that's the thing. Lydia Martin might have a 5.0 GPA and understand quantum mechanics, but she's still trying to believe in love stories. And everytime she does, they prove her wrong.

"We're done, Jackson," she says emotionlessly. "I don't want to play this game anymore."

Jackson sighs. "Is this because of Stilinski?"

She recoils away from him. "Stiles?" she asks, trying to hide the quiver in her voice. "Why would this be about Stiles?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Look, I don't know why you're even talking to the kid, but your whole reputation will be shot to hell if you do this." He says it like it's a fact, and one he doesn't particularly care about.

She's backing away from him. She's done with this conversation. "I don't care," she tells him, even though he doesn't deserve an answer. She tosses her final words to him as she turns the corner. "I'm talking to him because he's nothing like you."

* * *

She's crying her eyes out, and she doesn't give a shit if there's someone at the door. It's just that this is the sixth time the doorbell's rung, and she's about to rip the throat out of whoever it is waiting on her porch, disturbing her pity party and crying fest.

Except, when she throws the door open, she finds Stiles.

She wipes away a tear track, as if that will cover up her blotchy skin, puffy red eyes, and tear soaked face. "Stiles?" she mumbles, her voice wavering. "What the hell are you doing here?"

He looks deeply concerned, and like he wants to touch her but is trying not to. "You weren't answering your phone, and I was worried."

Of course she wasn't answering her phone. Does he see her right now?

She lets him inside, and he leads the way to her room. When she sits down on the bed, he pulls himself up, cross-legged, beside her. He rubs his hair for a second.

"I—uh I heard you talking with Jackson."

Her eyes dart to his face, the sympathy in his eyes. She wants to push it away but she's too exhausted. "How?"

He fiddles with his fingers. "I left practice late, and I heard arguing and I went to see what was going on. I only heard a bit, I swear, and I left. But I'm sorry that you're hurting."

His words bring her tears out again. She can't control herself. He pulls his arms around her, and she wants to relish in the comfort, but she's too angry.

"He just used me," she whispers bitterly. "Every time I think for a second that people really do find these perfect relationships, these perfect happy endings, somebody proves me wrong by stepping all over every look of love I ever see."

He pulls her back to face him, confusion and pain written in his eyes. "Lydia, what are you talking about?"

She pulls herself out of his arms. She's too upset, she can't control herself, and someone needs to hear this. She pulls the leather bound book of fairytales off the shelf, waving it in his face. "This," she says, her voice dripping bitterness and anger. "I'm talking about this fucking book. I loved this book as a kid, you know. My dad read me a different story every night, and they always had a happy ending, with some kind, sweet, beautiful girl finding true love with some perfect, handsome prince. And my dad would kiss me goodnight on the forehead, and my mom would come in and kiss my hair and she'd smell like lilies. And then they started fighting, every goddamn day." She's catching her breath because the tears are coming hard now. She might be getting hysterical. Stiles looks hopeless, like he wants to take her pain away but he doesn't know what to do.

"I read it every night, you know. They didn't think of reading it to me, they were too busy falling out of love. They got divorced, and they still fight if they ever see each other. And I tried, you know, I tried really hard to believe that these stories were possible. I tried to fit every aspect of every princess, and every time I think I find that prince, every time I convince myself that my mom and dad were a fluke, that love's still real and possible and beautiful, every goddamn time, somebody proves me wrong. And I know, I _know_ these are fucking children's stories but I wanted to believe them so badly."

She's dropped the book on the floor. She's crying so hard, and somehow, Stiles is holding her hands. She doesn't know how that happened. She collapses beside him on the bed and he's stroking her hair through her tears.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm sorry about Jackson. I'm sorry about your parents."

"It's not your fault," she whispers. "It's mine. I can't believe I was so stupid."

His eyes widen. "It's not your fault. Look, maybe some aspects of those stories are bullshit. I mean everyone with their royalty, and perfect faces, and palaces and shit? Life's so much more complicated than that. And maybe love isn't some big happily ever after like you always pictured it. But just because sometimes it falls apart, doesn't mean it isn't real."

He's probably right, but she can't hear that right now.

"It isn't," she says quietly. "It's a children's story. It's like Santa Claus. A pretty little story for kids that just gets ripped away when you grow up."

"Lydia," he says quietly. "I know you've seen some really hard things—"

But she doesn't want to hear whatever kind, sympathetic thing he wants to say. She doesn't want to. Because Stiles is too fundamentally good, and she just can't when she's this broken up and disillusioned. She pushes him away from her, and she pretends not to notice the flash of hurt in his eyes, even though it cuts her inside.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I can't."

He stands quietly, understanding. She looks at her hands, not wanting to watch him leave.

He pauses at the door, looking at her deeply. He looks at the book on the floor thoughtfully for a long moment. "I think you should give fairytales another try," he says, and slips out the door.

* * *

She picks herself back up after a day. She's ashamed of how she treated him, so she doesn't talk to him for a week. Her life feels silent and hollow. She shoves the leather book to the back of her bookcase, and tries to ignore his final words.

She doesn't want to believe anymore.

She's surprised when she comes home after an exhausting week, to a package on her front hall table. She tears off the packaging to find a bundle of papers. She recognizes his loopy scrawl on the front page, and her jaw drops. It's a title page.

"Princess Lydia and Her Happy Ending" the title reads. "A Fairytale."

She pulls open the makeshift book with her heartbeat racing.

"_Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess named Lydia Martin. Everyone worshipped her. She was the most beautiful girl in Beacon Hills, but also incredibly intelligent and incredibly kind. Every prince wanted her._

"_But Lydia was unhappy. She didn't believe she'd ever find love. She'd read a bunch of stories as a kid, and she wanted a love story. But she'd seen so many people hurt by love, so, though she claimed to want to find romance, she avoided it, to save herself the heartache. She dated princes because they were good-looking, and ignored the guys that really cared about her._

"_Lydia never followed her heart. She did what she thought she should to be a princess. But she was afraid of what the real lesson from her fairytale was._

"_Fairytales are not about marrying some attractive, rich guy Lydia. Jackson is never going to be Prince Charming, not only because he's a total douchebag, but also because you really never cared about the guy._

"_I can't write a decent fairytale, I'm sorry. I really did try, but I'm shit at all of this. All I'm saying is that I've been here through everything. And that I get that you've seen a lot of people get hurt. But maybe you have to get hurt a couple times before you get a happy ending. I don't have all the answers._

"_But I hate seeing you cry, no matter how beautiful you look doing it._

"_I might not be a prince in your mind, but I've liked you forever, Lydia._

"_Maybe you've been looking for your happy ending in the wrong places._

"_Before this becomes the sappiest shit I've ever written (too late, by the way, it definitely already is, somehow that always happens with you), I'm ending this letter._

"_Stiles."_

xxx

She's been staring at the hand-written pages in front of her for over half an hour.

No one has ever, _ever_ done anything like this for her and she doesn't know how to react. In fact, she doesn't think she's breathing. She's floored by this – this _fairytale_ he left her, this story that has everything but the happy ending.

She's just shocked because usually people ignore her if she's upset. She cried into a pillow for years and her parents never knew. Jackson never even really looked at her throughout their entire relationship.

And Stiles, _Stiles_ of all people, Stiles got it. Stiles understood her in a minute. Stiles gave her space when she needed it and wrote her things like this because – because he wanted to? Because he cared about her?

Stiles, who she's never considered a prince. Stiles who, despite the labels she gave him in the privacy of her mind, was an essential part of her life. Stiles who made her feel warm and dizzy. Stiles, who she avoided for ages because she was scared of what she felt for him.

This is how her mother finds her, sitting on the floor of the front hall, letter in hand, jaw dropped. Her mother looks at her gently.

"Did you read it, darling?"

Lydia looks up, eyes flickering dangerously. "What?"

Her mother smiles. "The package that lovely Stiles boy dropped off. I only spoke to him for a few minutes, but I like him, honey. Big improvement from that Jackson boy, he never even came to the door."

Lydia realizes what her mother's saying and cuts her off quickly, with "Stiles isn't—"

But then she stops. She doesn't know what Stiles is or isn't anymore. Instead, her words fall into another direction, one she isn't sure she's ready to take, but one she feels she needs to.

"How did you know you loved Dad?"

Her mother's eyebrows raise, but she doesn't ask about the unexpected question. "I don't know," she says thoughtfully. "I think I just knew when I felt it."

Lydia plays with the letter in front of her, eyes skimming the handwritten paragraphs. The words _happy ending_ jumping out at her, hitting her hard again. "Why didn't it work out?" she whispers, barely getting the words out. She knows the official answer – things just fell apart. Entropy. The disorder of the world is increasing. Scientists understand it better than she ever will. Apparently it's easier for things to fall apart than for things to come together.

Her mother's smile is wistful and mysterious, tied up in a love story Lydia isn't sure she'll ever understand. "I don't know that either, sweetheart. People change. We weren't the same people that we were when we got married. We were too different. Sometimes I don't think I even recognized the man beside me. I know it was hard on you, and that it still is. I'm sorry." Her eyes are sincere, but Lydia isn't ready to forgive yet. This is a step, albeit a small one, in that direction. But she isn't there yet.

Lydia toys with a piece of hair, afraid of the last question she has, the one she's never had the guts to ask. Somehow, Stiles' letter gives her the courage.

"Was it worth it?"

When her mother looks hurt and confused, she clarifies. "I don't mean because you had me. I mean, even if you didn't have a kid, was losing that relationship worth having it in the first place?"

Her mother, slowly, takes her hand. "Yes," she says simply. "It was painful when it ended. Sometimes it still is. But we really did love each other, Lydia. And you'll never know how something's going to end. Even in those fairytales that you love." Lydia's eyes widen. She didn't think her mother knew.

Her mother smiles, squeezing her daughter's hand. "I don't know if I believe in happy endings sweetheart, because I don't believe in endings. You think you've got this perfect happy forever when you get married, but that isn't necessarily true, because a wedding isn't an ending but a beginning. But I believe there are happy nows, and those matter just as much. If not more.

"So, yes. It was absolutely worth it, because I was happy for a long time. Sometimes, I think you just have to take a leap of faith, without knowing where your ending is going. If it makes you happy, it's worth it."

Lydia holds onto these words and her mother's smile like an anchor. She hasn't tried chasing what makes her happy, she hasn't tried a real leap of faith, and she doesn't know if she's brave enough but god, she wants to be. She traces his name on the bottom of his letter.

Her mother hands her the car keys.

She looks up in surprise. "Wha—" she begins but her mother just smiles. "Invite him over for dinner tomorrow night too, sweetheart. I think I'd really like to be formally introduced to the boy that's making my daughter happy again."

With that, her mother leaves her with the keys, the letter, and the courage to face him.

* * *

When he opens the door, he looks as hollow as she's felt all week. God, it's been a week since she spoke to him? How did she even manage that? She misses him so much.

There's hope in his eyes though, and it gives her the strength to speak, as he walks out onto the porch with her.

"Hi," she gets out.

His smile flashes like quicksilver. "Hi."

She knows she needs to start talking. But he's the brave one, the one who sent the letter, the one who poured his heart out. She knows that makes it her turn but she's so scared. When she starts talking, she's stuttering (and she never, _ever_ stutters) and looking anywhere but his deep brown eyes.

"I—I uhm. I got your letter… your story. And I uh—I. God, I'm sorry for the way I treated you last week, because you were only trying to help, and I mean, you're always trying to help. And I don't really deserve that, I don't. And I just…"

She looks at the story and his rough handwriting and it gives her courage. "This letter… no one's ever done anything like this for me, ever. I really didn't expect it, and I sat on the floor and stared at it because, well, no one really ever seemed to care all that much. But um, you're right. Everything that you said – I mean other than the stuff about me being beautiful and everyone wanting me, that's crap."

He rolls his eyes at this, clearly disagreeing. She laughs, and his mouth quirks towards a smile. His eyes are so intense she could drown in them, and she swallows hard. "It's true, though, that I've been scared of relationships. And trusting people. Because everybody always let me down. Except for you, Stiles. You never did."

She shakes her head, ignoring the pull she feels to his parted lips. "I've been so disillusioned about love because it always seems to fall apart. But maybe that's okay. Maybe it hurts, but maybe you survive it and it's worth it. I never really dated anyone I cared about, you know, because I think I was so scared that I'd get hurt, but in the process I missed out on everything I've been claiming I've wanted for years. And I've been such an idiot, you're right. I've thought you're such an incredible friend, I've been so careful not to think of you as anything else because I was so scared, and… you're right. I don't know if happy endings exist, but if they do, I've been looking for them in all the wrong places. I've been looking for them in children's books, and my parents, and Jackson… when I should have been looking for them in you."

She's breathless at this point. She's never done this, never been this honest about what she feels and she's absolutely terrified and he's so wide-eyed and speechless. He's gaping at her, his jaw fully dropped, like he never imagined this was possible. "Lydia," he murmurs, and it's somewhere between an exclamation and a prayer.

And then suddenly his arms are around her, and in an instant, he's kissing her. And she's kissed boys, she's kissed a ton of boys, but it's never felt like this. She's never really cared before, she's gone through the motions, but this is different. Her stomach flips, and her skin is on fire where he's touching her. His lips are warm and soft and fit perfectly with hers and she opens his mouth with hers, gaining her courage, leading him. Her tongue dances with his and he makes a low groaning noise in the back of his throat and it makes her face flush in the best way.

His one hand is tangling in her red curls, running his fingers through her hair like it's gold or some precious metal. His other hand grips her waist, pulling her closer.

"Oh god, Lydia," he mumbles against her mouth as they break for air. "I've been waiting for this for years."

She smiles against his warm lips. "Me too," she whispers. And it's true. She's been afraid, but she's also waiting for this feeling for as long as she can remember, she just didn't realize that she would find it with him.

They fit together perfectly, like they were made for each other, for this porch, for this moment. Her arms are around his neck, forcing him flush against her, pressing their lips together more forcefully, one hand still gripping the fairytale he wrote for her.

When she gets home, which she hopes won't be for quite a while, she thinks she'll write the ending. Maybe she'll send it back to him, just so he can see.

And that ending might not be a real ending, a promise of a happy forever, but it's the happiest now she can remember, and as she pulls Stiles closer, she knows that that's what she's been looking for.

* * *

Reviews are deeply appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading :)


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